Blue Skies
by Holly-Batali
Summary: One-shots and drabbles for Rivetra Week. Day 2: Letters. "Every soldier had a way of coping with the stress, the loss, the fear. Petra wrote letters."
1. Survive

Blue Skies  
By Holly-Batali

Because I have no idea what to call this. Shit title is shit.

Author's Note: Aaaaand it's time for Rivetra Week! Break out the tissues and the sad music folks. Sooo yeah, I haven't written much lately, but I'm hoping that this will help me get back in the groove! Speaking of groove, I HIGHLY recommend you read this while listening to "Something (Keeno Remix)" by Azedia.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. _Shingeki no Kyojin_ is the property of Hajime Isayama.

* * *

Day 1: Survive

Survival was the whispered prayer of the Survey Corps. It was the metallic screech of wires screaming through the air and the thud of grappling hooks anchoring in flesh or trees. It was the steady thud of hoof beats against overgrown foliage in the mad scramble to intercept or escape. It was the crackle of the fire, greedily devouring the offered fuel or wood, bodies, and life.

Survival was the guilty hope in the soul of every soldier, dedicated fully to sacrificing everything for the continuation of the human race but always praying to stay just a little longer, see one more sunrise, share one more laugh with a loved one, make just one more sweet memory for when they would be nothing but.

Blue skies, sweet with the promise of freedom, cloudless and undaunted. A cool breeze blowing petals and grass through the air. The songs of birds racing through the wide expanse, unchallenged and unrestricted, who not just survived, but _lived_. It was the dream of every soldier, every man and woman who bore the burden and privilege of the Wings of Freedom dreamed of the day humanity could truly live.

Petra Ral was no different. She was under no illusion that she would live a long, happy life. Those who survived the front lines, those who made it to thirty, forty (sometimes beyond) had lost their vitality, their passion, their humanity. Everything was sacrificed one way or another. It was not a life lightly chosen; Petra had a doting father, a steady life within Wall Rose, a fair future. But there was always _fear._ Fear that the titans would break through, that they would all die, that humanity would lose everything. More than that, there was the fear that she would never see the sky, that her life would never travel beyond the walls, that she would live and die in captivity, like a bird with clipped wings.

The soldiers that joined the Survey Corps all had the desire for freedom. It was what brought them together, what overcame the fear of death and destruction, what fueled the long hard treks and what steeled them against the distrust and hatred of the public. It was why they left the walls and many never returned. They would sacrifice for their dream; but every soldier wished to _survive_ to be a part of it.

When the female titan came, when Gunter and Erd were gone and it was just her and Auruo, Petra _knew_, in every fiber of her being, that it was her time to sacrifice. As the single steaming blue eye snapped to meet her gaze, she knew that she would not see the dream for herself. Her mind, her muscles, her breathing, everything seem to freeze in that moment. She could only watch and the titan bore down on her, could only _pray _and _scream_ at her body to MOVE, to attack, to dodge, to _survive_, whatever it took!

She thought of her father, praying for her safe return; of Eren, who had trusted them enough to speed off and rejoin their comrades; of Gunter and Erd, who had gone ahead; of Auruo, who would sacrifice next. She thought of Levi, her commander officer, fellow soldier, and friend. Levi, whom she trusted more than anyone to lead them to freedom.

She whispered her last prayer to him, to the man who could make her sacrifice mean something. Who could make all their sacrifices mean _something_. She prayed for freedom for the both of them, and said a hurried goodbye as the gargantuan leg swung at her, the air screaming around it.

She had served humanity for years, had sacrificed her family, her future, her peace, and now her life. She had lived longer than most, but now it was time to pay in full.


	2. Letters

Blue Skies  
By Holly-Batali

Author's Note: Yeah, I know, more angst and still no fluff. Sorry not sorry. This is something that just kind of formed on its own, like the last chapter. I really love the idea of Petra and Levi just spending time together, no need for anything sappy or romantic. Just trust in each other, and camaraderie. Trusting each other with their thoughts and weaknesses and free time. What dorks. This is trash.

Music: "A Rush of Blood to the Head" by Coldplay.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. _Shingeki no Kyojin_ is the property of Hajime Isayama.

Day 2: Letters

Every soldier had a way of coping with the stress, the loss, the fear. Some drank until they couldn't see straight much less remember mission details; others read books, anything from irrigation studies to mysteries, whatever engaged the mind and kept them anywhere but in the present. The lucky ones would go home to their families, play with children or siblings, hold their loved ones tight and promise to never let go.

Auruo liked to tell stories; about when he saved his sister from a poisonous snake, about the the time when he lost his first tooth, the first time he held his baby brother. It grounded him, helped him remember who he fought for. Erd liked to cook with his wife; they would dance around the kitchen and make simple stews and breads, then sit down for dinner with his mother, talking the night away. Gunter tended to throw himself into work; any hard labor that needed doing, he was happy to help. After greeting his mother and grandfather when he came home from an expedition, after the tearful reunions, he would wander the city, looking for something that needed doing, something to do with his hands so he wouldn't have to think. Levi cleaned; he had told Petra once that he had lived underground, surrounded by filth and poverty, that he had clawed his way up to the surface and never looked back. Cleaning was two birds with one stone: it was something to keep him occupied and it made him comfortable to be in a clean room, separated from the trash outside.

Petra wrote letters. She wrote to her father, to her comrades, to her mother (long since dead), to everyone she could think of. She never sent them (excluding the letters to her father), but the act of putting her hopes and fears onto paper, so personal and so heartfelt, never failed to clear her mind, to give her focus and direction. Sometimes she would laugh as she wrote, weaving tales of Hanji's latest discovery (and therefore Moblit's latest misfortune). Other times she would nearly destroy the paper with tears, sobbing in panic and fear that the letter would be her last.

She tended to keep the letters with good memories; life was short, she knew, but every time she tried to recall a memory, more and more details slipped away. Having them on paper was an anchor, something to reassure her that she was still human, that she was more than a sacrifice to the rest of her species. The letters that she kept she stored in a wooden box, her late mother's jewelry box. Before expeditions, she would look through them, hoping to memorize the details.

She wanted to be able to look back on her life and see it packed with memories and details. When she died (and she knew she would, sooner than most), when her life flashed before her eyes, she wanted to know that she lived as much as she could have.

* * *

Levi had found her letters once when he was cleaning the section of the barracks that the Survey Corps were occupying. The box had been set on top of Petra's desk, pushed back into the corner neatly. It was the sound that sparked Levi's curiosity; he'd picked it up so that he could wipe down the desk underneath it and then clean the box itself. He had expected a rattle of metal or other trinkets, but had instead heard the dry rasp of paper. He had opened it, seen the messy stack of folded papers, some tear-stained and worn and others pristine and freshly creased, and he had immediately understood.

After conversations and battles and other bonding experiences, Petra's method of coping changed. Whenever she wrote letters, Levi would stay with her, sitting at the kitchen table or with their desks pushed together. Petra would write her letters, humming and muttering under her breath, occasionally chatting to Levi about the memories she was recording. Levi would bring his paperwork and fill it out next to her, the scratching of their pens and tapping of tea cups on saucers the only conversation the two of them needed.

* * *

Weeks and months later, Levi would find himself sitting at his desk in silence, unfinished paperwork and cold tea his only company. After expeditions, he would sit and read letters. Petra's hopes and fears, her childhood fantasies and adulthood misgivings, her memories and dreams. He read them as religiously as their creator had. He was the only one left to remember them, to carry their words with him. She hadn't survived, but he could ensure that as long as he was alive, so were her memories.


End file.
